


They say of the king

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: The Great Nargothrond Threesome Project [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Power Dynamics, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edrahil watches his king. Curufin watches Edrahil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They say of the king

They say our king is wise, and just, and that the light of the Trees shines still in his eyes. I have no doubt of this, though I would follow him anyway, however unwise and foolish the venture. 

They say that he is fair beyond measure, and I cannot argue, especially when the necklace of the dwarves is clasped at his throat, and his beauty is illuminated from without, and within, and he blazes brighter than any torchlight in our deep halls. 

They say he has a great heart, and trusts perhaps too easily – with this I readily agree, and would tell you the same myself.

 

Let me tell you what I know of Curufin, son of Fëanor.

That he is the ghost of his father re-embodied is said by many. But I find him all the more terrifying than Curufinwë Fëanaro, for his spirit is not of fire but of ice, and he can burn or freeze at a glance. 

They say he wields words as well as he wields steel, and bends both to his will. The former I fear the most, for one can fight steel with steel, iron with iron. But words – words are far more dangerous. 

He dwells in our halls, that wild, fair brother of his at his side, thanks to the generous heart of our king. 

He will hear no word raised against his half-cousins, though I entreat him, and beg him to heed to caution. 

“I would not risk my people rashly, Edrahil,” he tells me. “Have faith.” 

 _I do have faith_ , I want to say, _I just fear that you are seduced away from reason_. But I love my king, and hold my tongue.

And instead I watch, and wait, hand ever near my sword, even as Curufin draws closer into my lord’s confidences, closer in friendship – though it is a friendship of flinty edges and exchanges spoken in glances and half-truths, hidden in light words – so close, in fact, that I fear he has gained access to my king’s heart. 

 

I stand guard by his chambers, and hear the low murmur of voices late into the night. As the shadows grow long, and deep, the murmurs change in cadence, and I brace myself against his door and tremble as murmurs turn to moans, and I feel my hatred throb deep. 

He trusts me, I know, trusts me more than the snake-tongued Fëanorion, and yet he closes those doors behind him each night and lets me not past them, lets me not into his quarters or into his bed, where he welcomes his dark cousin. 

In the morning he emerges with his jewels covering the marks on his throat, shaking his sleeves over the burns on his wrists, and Curufin slips by me and smirks, and I burn with something dreadful – something like loathing, something like envy, something like desire. 

He knows I watch him, my king, and his cousin knows too. 

“Faithful Edrahil,” he murmurs, as he passes me at the king’s side. “Ever-present, ever-watchful. Never distracted, are you?” 

I hold myself tall, fix my gaze, allow no answer to show on my face. But he reads it behind my eyes and laughs, and says, “I wonder if I could ever  _persuade_  you to be distracted…” 

And the king says, “Enough, Curvo,” and lays his hand on his cousin’s arm. 

But Curufin still watches me, and laughs on, and does not forget me.

And one night, as I stand by my king’s door, willing myself unmoved by the sounds from within –  _you are no more than a statue, and stone does not feel_  – it opens, and a hand falls on my shoulder. 

I turn, expecting to see my king, but silver eyes rather than blue are regarding me, and dark hair, rather than golden, shines in the torchlight. 

“Edrahil,” he says, and smiles. “Would you join us?” 

I follow him into the room, still as silent as granite. 

The king is laid across the bed, bare but for the Nauglamir, his hair loose over the pillows, ropes binding him hand and foot to each post of the bed. His eyes are covered, but his arousal is clear. 

I am frozen, but the fire, long banked within me, rages suddenly free.

“Long have you desired this,” says Curufin at my ear. “Do not deny it.” 

I don’t. 

“How it has tortured you,” he whispers, and he sweeps the hair from my neck to kiss the bare skin there. I shudder, and he laughs. “I offer him to you,” he says. “To do with as you will. And perhaps,” there is a challenge, mocking and light, in his voice, “if you please him well, he shall yield himself to you, rather than me.” 

The king strains against his bonds at that, but says nothing, and I look to Curufin, questioningly. 

“He cannot speak,” he says. “Until I tell him to. But what are you doing, my jealous friend?” he asks, and tugs at my light mail coat. “You are wasting this night, this gift, in confused gawping.” He pulls at the buckles of my clothing, beginning to disrobe me. “Show your king what your loyalty can offer.”

“And you?” I ask, finding my voice at last. 

He laughs, a surprisingly warm sound. “I shall watch. And, if you’re lucky,” his voice is a purr now, and his lips are once again on my neck, “perhaps I shall join.”

 

I shall not tell you more – no more than, perhaps, that my king is generous indeed, in body as well as spirit. That beauty is one thing when draped in formal robes and shining with jewels, but bare in torchlight, bound and bruised and shining with sweat – such beauty is a thing of worship. 

If he trusts too easily, I cannot criticize, for had he not trusted the dark son of Fëanor, the mirror of the spirit of fire, I would never have found myself frozen and enflamed by him. I never would have found myself caught between the light and the dark, clever hands driving me to distraction as the bound body of my king writhed beneath me; never would have known the addictive poison of his lips, of his hands, of his cock deep within me even as my king cried out wordlessly under us both. 

I remain loyal, I remain faithful; for I love my king, and would never betray him. And if I no longer complain that he allows Curufinwë Atarinkë into his council and into his bed, it is for the simple, selfish reason that sometimes, I am allowed to join. 

Forgive me, but I am weak.


End file.
